REAL Life. REALLY, REALLY Real Life. Y'know what I'm sayin'? It can find you through locked windows. It creeps under doors and slaps you around. Oh, Real Life, you trampler of productivity, MADE of productivity...you whisperer of obligation and responsibility. You are the bothersome pseudo-friend that always shows up and nobody knows quite why. You are the crunchy nut fragments in the peanut butter of what everybody would rather be doing. (I'm a creamy man. Well, not a CREAMY MAN, a...you know what? I think you know what I mean.)

Real Life, you just come in without knocking, sit down in my comfy chair, and start demanding jalapeno poppers. And I know that you know I don't have jalapeno poppers and would have to make a trip to the store to get some.

Real life, who told you you could borrow my pants? Why are you wearing my pants? That also tells me that you've been in my bedroom, and I know for damn sure that I didn't give you permission to be in there.

Real Life, the left side in the toaster isn't popping up. I know I smelled something toasting yesterday, and I think that you put the toaster away to cover you...y'know...breaking my toaster. It's frustrating; I know that you have neither A)Money for a replacement, nor B)Toaster repair skills.

Real life...you suck as a person.

But whatever...real life gotta git done. I forgive you, Real Life. Let's go and get some froyo so I can show you. Smooches.